


Soothing

by yeaka



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:13:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27582553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Connor knows Hank has trouble sleeping.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 11
Kudos: 60





	Soothing

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Detroit: Become Human or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Sumo’s in his own sleep-mode, powered down in the center of the living room, but he picks his heavy head up to peer at Connor through a tired yawn. Connor politely averts his gaze, hoping his avid stare isn’t what woke his companion—he knows humans have that strange, inexplicable _intuition_ when someone’s staring at them, and maybe the short fur on the back of Sumo’s neck was standing up too. Sumo looks at Connor for a little while, then plops back to the floor, neck crushing one outstretched paw. Connor’s posture doesn’t loosen—he sits as rigidly at the end of the couch as he did when Hank first left him. 

That was an hour and forty-seven minutes ago. Hank requires at least five hours and thirteen minutes more of rest, assuming he fell asleep the moment he reached his bedroom, which Connor knows didn’t happen. He’s dimmed all of his other senses to boost the ones focused on _Hank_ , all of his advanced processors occupied with just that one incredibly important thing. He follows the quiet pattern of Hank’s breathing through the wall and logs it away every time the mattress creaks with Hank shifting. He’s definitely still awake. Connor’s spent enough nights analyzing him to know. A part of Connor likes to think that he could sense Hank’s consciousness even without the data—that he’d just _know_ when Hank drifted off. Sumo hasn’t fallen entirely back to sleep, but he’s at least drifting lightly in and out of consciousness, content with Connor’s company.

Assuming Hank falls asleep in the next minute, they’ll only have to wait another six hours for Hank to get up again and come play with them. Or, Connor reminds himself, play with Sumo. Greet Connor. Yawn and ask what’s for breakfast, scratch his belly, have a shower, and maybe kiss Connor’s cheek. Connor can do things in the meantime—he can prepare that bedroom, clean the washroom, even work on cases. He doesn’t have to sit and wait for his human to wake up like an over-eager poodle. 

He does anyway, because his power level’s too high to justify recharging, yet all his missions feel so _empty_ when Hank’s not there to do them with him. 

Sumo snorts. He’s officially passed out. He doesn’t seem to have the same reliance on Hank that Connor does, even though Hank holds Sumo’s whole life in his hands. But Hank is a kind master, so Connor understands the trust and tranquility. He’s glad that Sumo is perpetually pleased and well-rested. It’s just unfortunate that it leaves him alone. 

It’s the third night in a row where that’s happened without the comfort of known Hank’s at least pleasantly asleep and hopefully in happy dreams. So Connor makes the executive decision to finally do something about it. He knows that humans like their privacy, and Hank’s bedroom isn’t something he normally enters without reason. He tells himself that _Hank_ is enough of a reason. 

He pushes off the couch, wanders down the hall, and hesitates for a fraction of a nanosecond before tentatively knocking. He knows he shouldn’t but does it anyway, defying the clear block letters that form in the corner of his eye. There’s a pause, and then Hank’s muffled voice calls, “C’m’in.”

The door creaks a little on the way—another task for Connor to look after in the morning. He hopes it doesn’t disturb Sumo. Shutting the door behind him, he comes closer without waiting for the invitation. But he does stop at the very edge of the bed, where he just looks down at his lieutenant, strewn across the sheets with rumpled hair and a stained t-shirt, bathed in the faint starlight straining through the curtain. It washes him in a pale blue that Connor’s optical sensors easily enhance, sharpen, articulating every little detail on Hank’s handsome face. Hank looks _exhausted_ but too lucid, his eyes half lidded but clear. He mutters, “What’d you want, Con?”

Connor’s tempted to parrot: _you_ , because it’s a joke Hank tells to him too often, but it doesn’t seem like the time for elementary word play. Instead, he answers honestly: “I want to help you sleep.”

Hank snorts. “Good luck with that.”

“May I join you?”

Hank’s usual quick-fire answer doesn’t come. His cheeks stain darker, lips twisting into a frown, peering up at Connor and examining his face, like trying to determine if he’s serious. Of course he is. He’s thought of lying in bed with Hank before a dozen times, just never knew how to ask. It’s all _new_ to him, and Hank’s both the best and the worst teacher. 

Hank slowly mumbles, “I didn’t think you did that... lie down, I mean...” Obviously, he can. But Hank’s right that it’s not required for recharging. 

Maybe some time, he’ll have that intangible human courage that will get him _lying in Hank’s bed_ , the two of them tucked together under the blankets, Hank wrapped up in his arms and asleep against his chest. It’s not the night for that—it’s already been too long, and Connor cares about Hank enough to prioritize his health over all other pleasures. 

“I was going to sit. If you would lay your head in my lap, I could stroke your hair. Several online sources report that this aids sleep.”

Hank’s frown deepens. He grunts, “Right,” but then, “Yeah... okay...” And he shuffles back, leaving Connor room to squeeze in behind him.

Connor does. He hikes up onto the bed still in his full suit, white button-up and grey jacket and even tie, only his shoes missing, off by the door or perhaps in Sumo’s mouth. Now that Connor’s no longer supervising Sumo, there’s no telling what could happen in the living room. But the odds favour Sumo simply sleeping the whole time, and Connor judges the risk worth it. 

He sits against the headboard, right between Hank’s pillows, and waits—it takes Hank a good deal of time to settle down again. When Hank’s head first rests on Connor’s thigh, it’s feather-light, as though Hank’s afraid to put his full weight on Connor’s lap. But then Connor’s palm falls to Hank’s cheek, and Hank sighs, relaxing. He lets himself properly _rest_. On his side, he curls up around Connor, closes his eyes, and lets out a long breath. Connor’s blunt fingertips rake back to his forehead. 

In slow, methodical strokes, Connor pets Hank’s hair. He runs his fingers through it, rearranges it, never quite tugs but stimulates, dancing out simple patterns and rubbing away any tension. He’s firm but gentle, generating all the heat his meager system can manage. He doesn’t have any human flare, but he tries to pet Hank with as much love as Hank pets Sumo. 

Inside, he’s bursting with all the love Sumo has whenever he comes home with treats, jumping and slobbering all over him. He doesn’t shower Hank in messy kisses, but he wants to. 

He lulls Hank off to sleep instead, humming a quiet melody from the year of Hank’s birth, and he’s rewarded in the morning by hearing all of Hank’s good dreams.


End file.
